Disintegration
by LittleWing
Summary: “And now, John Winchester, the fun begins.” Slowly she traced a finger along the week long growth of facial hair covering his jaw.
1. You Do What You Have To Do

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. I am merely borrowing them for my own pleasure.

**Notes:** I took this story down because I did some tweaking and decided I should repost as opposed to simply replacing the chapters. I am currently working on chapter four. Feedback spurs me on, however I am in school right now so posting will be slow going.

**Rating:** R for language and violence

**Characters:** John, Dean, Sam, Missouri and an OC (no romance, don't worry)

**Pairings:** None.

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**You Do What You Have to Do**

"_I'll leave the key under the mat,"_ April Meyer's fear filled voice ran through John Winchester's steeled mind as he pulled his black Chevy truck into the cracked weather worn driveway to the young woman's house. The pale sage green one story house with white trim, large picture window and short front yard with tightly trimmed green-browning-grass stood out starkly from the other more rundown single and two story houses in the urban neighborhood. _"Brendan and I are going to my mom's for the night."_ John cut the heavily idling engine. Reaching across the blanket covered leather bench seat, he wrapped thickening fingers into the coarse fabric of thelarge black duffle occupying the seat next to him.

A creak- not unlike that of the Impala, John reminisced- filled the cool late night air as he pulled the door to the old truck open and dropped down to the uneven chunk of driveway. Hefting the large bag from one hand to the other, John swung the door closed and made his way up the chipped walk leading to the almost more weather worn wood of the front porch.

The warped planks of chipped, peeling white painted wood groaned under his weight as John made his way to the weather beaten aluminum screen door-standing slightly ajar. The porch light clicked on as he moved closer to the door suddenly bathing the old wood in harsh yellow/white light. Blinking rapidly and averting his eyes down, John forced his wary brown eyes to adjust to the sudden bombardment of light.

Just below the slightly open screen door sat a small dark green mat, reading "welcome" with ivy cut outs decorating the outer edges-flecks of white paint visible beneath it. Stooping down John peeled back the fairly new mat. Right where she said it would be was a small golden/brass colored key and an index card.

'_John,_

_Thank you so much for helping me out with this. I cannot tell you how afraid I've been for Brendan and myself since this all started. We'll be back in the morning. _

_Thank you,_

_April Meyer'_

Replacing the note under the mat, John's legs pushed him back up to face the door. Fresh white paint stared back at him from a solid wood door. Holding the key ready, John pulled the screen door open. Resting the door on his hip, he inserted the newer key into the still shiny lock and gave it a sharp twist.

The old hinges groaned as he pushed the wooden door open. He almost wanted to let his mind wonder back to the days when he'd come home from work to find Dean waiting excitedly by the door and Mary rushing about the kitchen in a flurry of dishes and food. And Sam on the floor practicing his newly acquired skill of rolling over. For the briefest of moments he did allow his mind to sink back those twenty plus years to one of the many afternoons he'd come home to find that scene playing out, but then his boot clad foot settled into the too quiet home of April Meyer.

Closing the surprisingly light weight door behind him, John moved further into the modestly sized living room. The mostly blue hued carpeting muffled his thick footsteps as he moved. Settling the heavy bag on the light blue couch that'd surely seen better days, he gathered his supplies: coarse ground salt, lighter fluid, a small box of matches, a Zippo and holy water- just in case.

Releasing a shallow breath the weary hunter scanned the small room for his quarry- a tall brass urn with April's deceased husband inside. A large fluffy chair sat opposite the couch flanking the a small brown stone fireplace that was mantel free. A short distance away sat a large white laundry basket brimming with more than enough toys to keep a young toddler entertained.

And then the illuminating force of the bright porch light filtering through the lightly curtained picture window was gone. Cursing himself for not thinking forward enough to have his flashlight at the ready and taking the filtered light for granted, John blindly reached into his bag fishing out the wanted object. In one smooth move he flicked it on and instantly bathed the back of the living room in a wide beam of yellow light.

Moving boxes lined the pale green wall and John couldn't help the flash of memory that came to his mind. Dean hadn't been more than a year old when they'd moved into the house in Lawrence. Moving boxes had sat along the back of the dinning room wall for weeks before Mary'd gotten sick of finding the child stuck either between them or behind them and told John that if he ever wanted to eat again he'd move them to the basement.

Pushing the memory back into the corner of his mind it'd escaped from, John stopped his sweep of the room. Something wasn't right. He'd felt it the first time he met the seemingly distraught and grieving young woman. He'd met thousands of grieving and distraught people over the last twenty years. Seen what he was certain were all the ways there were to grieve the sudden and often unexplainable passing of a loved one. Hell he'd been there. Some days he wasn't sure he'd ever really moved through the grief or if he'd just shut it off and stuffed it so far back in his mind that there almost wasn't anyway to get it back.

April Meyer had acted her part brilliantly. Tears had flowed at the right moments. Her voice quivered when she spoke of the happenings- to be taken as overwhelming concern when she spoke of her son. As convincing as it had all been none of it reached her green-blue eyes.

And so he went about his part as unsuspecting ghost hunter, eager to help the would be damsel in distress.

Retraining the flashlight on the duffle, John slipped the salt, matches, Zippo and lighter fluid back into the open bag. The short hair on the back of his neck began to stand on end as he reached one last time into the bag for his sawed off.

"You won't get the chance, John," her voice was soft and high-almost childlike-as it filled the once quiet room.

"Is this where you try to kill me?" he asked, staring hard into the inky blackness coating the back half of the living room near the unfurnished dining room. "Or are you going to threaten my boys…again?"

"We decided to try another approach," movement stirred within the blackness as the soft childlike voice spoke. Like a lightweight curtain caught in a subtle spring breeze a petite body pulled from the shadows.

"We?" he questioned- knowing there would be no answer, no new information would be gleaned. Unconsciously he tightened his already firm grip on the gun in his hand. Gripping the sports bottle of holy water tighter in his opposing hand John Winchester watched as the young woman moved in fluid steps from the darkened corner toward him- the battle ground clear. "So then," he spat out at her, "what are you going to do?"

A sugary sweet smile spread across her angular face as she moved closer to her prey- the shadows along the walls clinging to her as though they were robes. "This," her still childlike voice hissed at him as her thin, boney fingers wrapped themselves into the buzzed hair of his head. "It'll only hurt a minute," she whispered, pulling him in closer to her.

Burning pain erupted through his head the second her icy skeletal fingers came into contact with the skin of his scalp. The icy hot pain burned its way through every nerve ending it connected with. Biting back the scream building in his throat, John closed his eyes and tried to pull away from the pain enducing tendril like fingers that were the cause of it all.

"Shhh," she breathed into his ear- breath cold against his cheek and ear- pressing her warming fingers deeper into the tender skin of his scalp.

Another scream began to build, only to die before it could pass his lips. Gasping to pull in any amount of oxygen against the intense burning of whatever it was she was doing to him, John willed his body to move away from her; it refused to respond.

A gasped scream escaped the elder Winchester's lips as she pushed her now warm fingers still deeper into his flesh. He could feel his hands losing their sure grip on the gun and the holy water. Through the fog the April thing had forced his mind into, John weakly fought to force his hands to work. With all the damage he'd caused whatever it was that April was and her kind, he knew that death was too good for him. No, forcing him to suffer was a far better thing than simply killing him.

In the months since leaving Dean and Sam every demon he'd come across didn't hesitate telling him in great detail how they were going to kill him and his boys. How messy and painful it would be for the boys. How they would all take great pleasure in the feast of grief, anger and helplessness John's emotions were sure to bring after being forced to watch his boys- his only family- be murdered before his eyes. Fear and anger'd gripped him every time a demon reveled in telling him that. And he dispatched every one of the things that threatened his family. Killed every beast that had the nerve to speak of his sons in such a manner- reveling in the nerve he was hacking so boldly away at.

Slowly his deadening hands worked the drink spout on the top of the bottle up. With what little amount of will he had left, John forced his hand to tighten on the bottle as he brought it up to spurt the blessed water at the she thing causing him more physical pain than he'd ever known at once. The shotgun fell from slackened fingers on his other hand with a dull clank to the floor..

A scream filled the air. For one brief moment he hoped that it had been her's. But as he forced his brown eyes open to see her face staring back at him with a plastic smile of joy carved across her face he knew that the breaking voice reaching new pitches in the blackened house was his.

God he wanted the pain to stop; wanted to send this bitch back to hell in a glorious display.

A dull thud registered with his clouding, darkening mind and he knew it was the bottle of holy water. He could feel his fingers, hands, and arms relax against his sides- resting heavily against the soft, thick material of his blue jeans. Wetness began to register in the back of his dull aching mind, and the pain in his knees began to rival that in head. He couldn't help but wonder when he'd fallen to his knees.

"You're a very silly man," the childlike voice whispered in his ear seconds before the once icy touch was pulled back and he was finally allowed to sink to the worn wood of the house in an unconscious heap. "And now, John Winchester, the fun begins." Slowly she traced a finger along the week long growth of facial hair covering his jaw.

…TBC…


	2. What Ravages of Spirit

Please see chapter one for notes, rating, warnings and disclaimer.

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**What Ravages of Spirit**

A shiver ran through John Winchester's age thickening body as his mind struggled to pull from the depths of darkness that bitch'd cast him into. His body was refusing to work. His arms stayed heavy and glued to the stained, warped wood of the floor. And no matter how he willed them his eyes refused his repeated orders to open. Panic settled into the pit of his stomach, as his body continued to ignore his orders to get going. Tossing the weighted ball of fear to the farthest depths he could, John focused what little energy he had gathered up since April's attack on forcing his mind and body to reconnect.

With a groan, he slowly scraped a hand along the rotting wood of the floor and forced it beneath his chest. Planting it firmly against the splintered flooring John pushed his upper body weight onto it. That was more like it. With another small groan, he forced his other arm beneath him- levering his body up from the dried, rotting floor. His body protested, but he pressed on, pulling his knees up and under him. Forcing his aching body to continue its movements, John swiped the shotgun and nearly empty sport bottle of holy water from where they'd fallen on the floor during the attack.

John raked a rough hand over his bearded face as he blinked back the morning light filtering through the now empty front window. Doing his best to focus his eyes, he looked around the very empty run down room. He stared in disbelief and anger as he realized how far they'd gone to secure the ruse and get him to come.

The once carpeted floor was now nothing more than graying, splintering planks of worn hardwood. The hearth of the fireplace that only a few hours ago had been clean and well maintained, was now badly chipped and falling from its cemented position on the wall. Boxes lining the back wall of the living and dining rooms were gone, replaced by molded piles of old newspapers and God only knew what else. The child's toys were gone. Ugly, peeling, yellow paint now adorned the walls. And the couch his bag had been resting a top was gone; leaving the large black bag sitting in its place.

The smell struck John's nose, permeating his lungs and nostrils, as realization pulled at his brain. The bitch had dressed the house, maybe the neighborhood even, to fit her cover. Careful to take shallow breaths through his mouth to avoid the sick feeling the thick smell in the stale air of the small house was causing, John snatched up the canvas bag and barreled out the almost disintegrated wood door.

Bright sunlight beat down across the pavement and onto the worn houses of the neighborhood. Cursing his weakness that'd brought him to this forsaken place, John tossed the bag onto the floor of the passenger side and stole a quick look back at the trap he'd walked into hoping to get more information. Staring back at him from the front window were several stickers in various bright colors. Stealing a look at the surrounding houses, he saw more of the same stickers shining out at him from the windows and doors.

"_Explains why I wasn't surrounded by police or nurses and doctors this morning," _he thought climbing into the old Chevy.

Bringing the old truck to life with a roar, John backed from the almost gravel drive and peeled out toward the main road.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Standing in the small shower of his motel room, John reveled in the wondrous way the tiny beads of heated water fell onto his cool skin. What had she done to him? He hadn't been able to get warm since that girl had attacked him. Teeth nearly chattering in his head John Winchester turned the knob on the shower faucet making the water hotter. A pent up sigh of relief pressed passed his lips as warmth finally began to penetrate the layer of ice that bitch'd cast over him.

"John," a soft familiar voice carried over the steady drum of the hot liquid beads beating relentlessly against the pale blue tile of the shower. "John." Giving his head a quick shake he tried to clear the familiar timbre from his mind. It couldn't be. She was gone. She'd been gone for over twenty years. And not three months ago she'd given what was left of herself to save their boys from a poltergiest. "John," the voice once again floated through the air, rolling in on the steamy mist the heat from the water had created.

"No," he offered to the voice weakly in answer to its persistent calling. "It can't be you."

"John," the tone was more insistent- more demanding- this time. It demanded that he look; that he push aside his anguish at hearing the voice he'd thought he'd never hear again and pull aside the faded blue curtain and look. See that she was there. That she was real.

Pushing back the thick plastic curtain blocking his view of room beyond the tubbed shower, John reached for the water faucet and gave it a quick turn to shut it off. Pockets of clouded steam greeted him as he stared into the empty room.

Cool tiles received his feet as he stepped tenderly from the water slicked tub. Liberating one of the larger towels from the edge of the sink counter where he'd left it, John hastily wrapped the cheap cloth around his waist and tucked a tight knot. The sensation that he wasn't as alone as he knew he was shot through him- brown eyes darting around the small steam covered room. Someone was there. He could feel it like a cold wind on his newly warmed wet skin- raking the hair clinging to his forearms up.

"Look," the voice cooed from everywhere and nowhere all at once, pulling his attention to the large mirror covering the dulled wall paper beneath. **I am here, John** was printed neatly in the steam clinging to the cool surface of the mirror. "I'm here, John."

"No," he whispered harshly at the soft, sad voice echoing through the room and his head. "No." Grabbing a hand towel from the rack next to the badly chipped counter top, John rubbed harshly at the steam covered mirror and the words written there. She was gone. She was never coming back. All Mary had left to give to him, to the boys, was gone. No, when his job was done she'd be there. But she wasn't here.

"John," the voice sighed, soft and long, "look at me."

Tears begged to form in his eyes as he heart broke at the voice- her voice. Whatever this trick was, it was good. Forcing the pain the voice brought his heart down to the pit of his stomach and the back burner of his brain, John opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed and looked into the mirror. A tight gasp escaped him. She was there. No, something was wearing her face. Wearing the tenderness that was always set deep in her green eyes. Wearing her sweetly tender smile.

"Mary?' he questioned reaching a trembling hand out to ghost a finger over the lips being reflected back to him from an image he knew wasn't behind him. God, how he wanted it to be her. Wanted her to be there, not just some pale reflection of who she was or what some thing wanted him to believe she was. "No," he forced out through closed teeth as tears began to form and threaten to burn at his eyes. "No. You aren't her. You could never be her."

Turning away from the chipped still mostly fogged over mirror, John headed for the main room. "Go back to hell where you came from, Bitch," he called to the figure in the mirror as he rounded the corner from the bathroom.

Yanking his worn duffle from the motel table where he'd dropped it the day before after checking in, John dropped it hastily on to the bed and rummaged out a clean set of clothes. Telling himself as he pulled on a pair of mostly clean jeans that the thing in the mirror hadn't been his Mary.

"John," the voice said urgently, and surprisingly close.

"Where are you?" He asked reaching in his duffle his calloused fingers found and wrapped around a smooth metal flask. Pulling the old flask from the duffle, John waited for whatever it was to show itself.

"Here."

She was consistent, he'd give her that.

Concealing the flask, he turned to face the TV and the mirror behind it. Steeling himself John looked from the wall to the mirror. There she was. Just above the back of the reflected TV. Golden locks fell in light waves around her ovally heart shaped face, perfectly framing her green eyes. Slightly pale skin stood just a few shades darker than the white night gown she wore. But it wasn't her. The breath taking beauty she'd been and would still have been wasn't really there with him. No, this was something that April bitch'd done to him.

He couldn't be sure how, but he knew she'd done something to him other than steal all the warmth from him.

"You're not her. You will never be her," he spat at the image. Tell it that enough and it'll go away. Go far away and leave him alone. Quit making him miss her more than he already does.

"It's Sam," she said as though he hadn't said a thing. Her green eyes deepened, concern flooding from them and her to fill him. "He's in danger."

"No, no, I just left them. He's fine. Dean's taking good care of him." No, this wasn't her. He didn't have to tell her that. Why did he?

"Dean's the reason he's in danger, John." Her hope filled expression suddenly hardened and twisted into one of fear. "Dean isn't himself. He's going to kill Sam."

"Who are you?"

"Call them, John. You have to get Sam away from Dean."

"Wh…what's wrong with D….Dean?" _Why are you stammering like a child?_ he scolded himself as he stared at the image of the thing trying to be Mary.

"He's a demon."

"No."

"Yes, John," she said tilting her head in that way she did when she thought he wasn't taking her serious. No,nononononono, it wasn't her. Couldn't be her. Could never be her. "He was…different the last time you saw him, wasn't he?"

"No, he was fine. Dean is fine. Sam is fine. They're both fine … safe."

"No, they're not. The demon pretending to be Dean is going to kill Sam. Think about it, John."

"Shut up!" Lies! Every word from her mouth was a lie. She was the demon. But, God, how she looked like his Mary. How he wanted her to be Mary. This Mary was very convincing, but still just a trick of his mind; a play of light and desire all brought out and played upon by the young woman he'd tried to help. "You are not Mary. I don't know what you are, but you are not her. My sons are fine and far away from you."

Tightening his grip on the flask in his hand, John turned his back on the pale, hollow reflection of his late wife. He was tired. Whatever the bitch had done to him at that god forsaken house had left him more tired than not sleeping for days, and cold- unbelievably cold.

He dropped the still full flask of holy water back into the duffle and began to pile the clothes he'd tossed out in search of something to wear beside the well traveled bag. Hastily grabbing the shirt at the top of the pile John began to repack the small pile. Tired or not he could not stay at this motel, or in this town to get the rest he needed.

"Going somewhere?" Her voice lost the soft timbre he loved most about her. The slight hard edge confirmed to him that it wasn't Mary he was talking to….walking out on. He didn't bother to answer he;r didn't turn to look. But he knew she watching him, arms folded across her chest, a scolding look welded to her fair face and fire burning in her green eyes. He'd seen Mary pissed off more than once, he didn't need to see it now; not knowing that it wasn't her. "You'll never out run me, John."

_I don't doubt that,_ he thought pulling the zipper to close the newly packed duffle. Pulling on his boots John grabbed the bag and headed for the door. Flicking the lights off, John Winchester all but slammed the door behind him.

A yawn threatened to push passed his lips as he pressed the accelerator petal down farther, urging the old Chevy faster down the back highway. The sooner he got to the next town- or the town after that, it really didn't matter, the better. She'd be there at whatever hotel or motel he chose to stay at. She wouldn't be there waiting for him like some kind of psychic thing. No, she'd just follow him in.

Nearly an hour out of April Meyer's town and he can feel his eyes wanting to slip closed; his body begging him to stop and sleep.

Reaching over he twisted the button on the radio filling the well kept Chevy with a country song he wasn't familiar with. But it was loud and drowning out thoughts of sleep and the ghost he'd been trying to out run for the last twenty years. Rolling down the window he let in the cool night air to quiet his body's screams for sleep.

"You won't do the boys any good if you're dead, John," Mary's voice suddenly filled the air in the cab as another yawn pulled at the corners of his mouth.

He nodded. Much as he didn't want to hear her voice, he couldn't disagree with it. Whatever it was that April'd done to him, he and the boys wouldn't be able to fix it if he drove off into a tree because he'd fallen asleep at the wheel.

With a barely stifled yawn, John eased the truck as far off the road as he dared. Cutting the lights and engine he leaned the seat back as far as it would go before rolling up his window to just a crack before settling into the leather of the seat. Pulling his coat tighter around himself, John let his head rest against the hard plastic of the truck's interior leading up to the roof.

"Rest, My Love, sleep well," Mary's voice once again filled the air…or his head, he really couldn't tell as exhaustion took over and his body finally got what it wanted- sleep.

…TBC…


	3. Conjured This Contemptuous Rage

Please see chapter one for all notes, ratings, warnings and disclaimer.

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**Conjured This Temptuous Rage**

A low moan filled the air of the darkened motel room. It was familiar to him somehow as he stared into the darkness of the greatly un-detailed room. Another muffled, whimper broke the dark and he recognized it: Sam. Narrowing his eyes against the dark he tried to see where the whimpered cries were coming from. There was next to no light in the room, making it more than impossible for his trained eyes to make out anything more than the faint outlines of a bed in the corner and the bathroom door.

He wanted to call out to his son, ask him where he was- get a location- but no sound would move passed his lips, though he was screaming for Sam. He was mute and practically blind. Anger surged through to his core as he heard a throaty laugh surround him. And then he knew it was that bitch again; it was a game.

Taking a deep breath he calmed his anger and stopped screaming for his youngest son. It would do him no good.

Suddenly light flooded what he knew to be a motel room blinding him. As his vision cleared and adjusted to the light from the dark, John Winchester stared at the floor. Bound, gagged and bloodied lay Sam. He was curled on his side, head resting awkwardly against the worn multi tone carpet. Ropes burned and cut into his ankles and blood splattered and coated his bare feet in red-brown dots. His once grey tee shirt hung loosely over his impossibly thin frame torn and bloody. Moving on autopilot toward his son, John studied the still form on the floor. Cuts and bruises covered his face, distorting his features. His hair'd grown longer and a beard decorated his usually clean shaven face.Blood also coated his hands in red-brown streaks that were tied harshly behind him, from the burns and cuts to his wrists.

His baby boy'd looked better.

In all the years they'd been hunting John could not ever remember Sam this beaten; this bruised. The urge to kill whatever'd done this to his son, his baby boy, fought to come to the surface as he watched Sam drag in ragged breath after ragged breath.

Reminding himself that the bloodied body before him, though a sad sight, was not his son, John moved away from the boy he knelt next beside. It was a dream…a vision put in his head.

_With a loud creak and a boom the door to the room flew in and collided solidly with the wall behind it. "Sammy!" Dean beamed, brown paper grocery bag in one hand, room key dangling from the other. "Did ya miss me?" _

With a small snort at the Dean the bitch'd decided to show him, John watched as the Dean April was showing him kicked the door closed and set the bag on the tiny table the motel offered.

_A wide, cocky grin in place Dean strode up to the now very conscious form still curled up on his side at the foot of the bed. With careful hands he untied the young man's feet before fisting the tattered tee shirt and hauling the poor kid to his feet. _

"What the hell are you up to?" John asked, watching the scene before

him play out .

_Dean deposited a barely conscious Sam onto the bed he'd lain in front of. Mumbling something into the young hunter's ear that caused him to fall even more still, the elder of John's boys left his captive's side to rummage through the paper bag he'd set down a few moments before. _

Tears wanted to burn at John's eyes when he saw Dean pull a small bottle of water, peroxide and a bag of clean rags from the bag. He knew what this vision of his oldest was up to- keeping the victim alive and well enough to torture again.

"Dean would never do this," he shouted at what he knew to be a dream.

"Are you so sure?" a soft childlike voice chirped through his skull. "He needs to be stopped before he goes this far, John. And he will go this far. He will kill Sam. He is not Dean. He's done something with the real Dean. See…"

_The still mostly dark motel room shifted to become a large room with a game room, family room and kitchen all spilling into one another. Sam lay on the beige carpet of the game room on his back next to a pool table- his face set in a scowl of pissed. _John watched, anger welling once again as Dean casually poured himself a half glass of whiskey from a bottle at the small bar on the other side of the pool table._ Taking a near ginger sip of the amber colored liquid, Dean moved closer to the table telling Sam how he should appreciate him more. _John watched in odd shades of anger as his oldest son abandoned the glass at the edge of the table and walked calmly around the table to a worn ruck sack.

Finding his legs, John moved closer to the table and the bag Dean was rummaging through. His breath froze in his chest as he stared over his son's shoulder at the lengths of rope, knives and other various forms of torture the bag held. _Settling on a large kitchen knife, Dean's trade mark eat shit grin etched across his face as his fingers wrapped around the black handle of the knife. He turned his attention from the bag to Sam then to the table. Wicked smile still splayed on his lips, Dean drove the knife into the table between the wood edge and felt. Sam momentarily stopped eyeing his older brother to stare at the slightly swaying knife wedged into the table top. Dean's attention was back on the bag and its contents._

"This isn't Dean," John said moving around the pool table, unable to look away from the scene still being played out before him. "This never happened."

"Keep watching, John," the raspy soft voice that was somewhere between April's and Mary's said from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

_Drawing his feet up to his chest, Sam lashed out at and unaware Dean with a double kick that sent the older boy tumbling to the floor in a balled heap. Not wasting a second Sam quickly climbed to his feet and slipped his bound hands over the blade of the knife. With a grunt of exertion he slid his bound hands over the blade again once, twice, three times before the thick rope binding them together frayed and broke against the sharp edge. Hands free, Sam grasped the handle of the knife and yanked it free of the table._

John almost couldn't help the twinge of pride he felt at Sam's ability to get free. Much as the boy'd hated the drills and training sessions, he had learned to keep a calm head, stock in his surroundings and plan for an escape. He'd just never thought that Sam would be using those skills against his older brother. "This isn't right," he said as Sam turned the knife in hand to face his older brother.

_Holding the knife at the ready, Sam watched and anticipated Dean's next move as the older hunter rolled himself to a standing position. Sam took a step forward as Dean moved with quick angry steps toward him. Bringing the knife at his older brother in a wide arch, Sam attacked. Dean leaned back, dodging the would be fatal blow easily. As Sam swung his arm back in another wide sweeping arch, Dean brought his hands up to catch Sam in the forearm. With a grunt and a curse, Dean forced his brother's arm down and back. Sam bit back the pain in his arm as the knife fell to the floor and he was suddenly twisted around; half pushed to the floor._

"Stop this," he called out, his voice filling the room, and not drawing any attention to himself from the fighting brothers. "Dean would never do this."

"He did, John," Mary's quiet voice filled the room of his mind. "This is where it happened. Where it starts."

"No," he ground out as Dean landed a series of punches to Sam's face and chest, driving him back toward a large built in bookshelf. John slammed his eyes shut as his youngest son's body collided hard with the shelves, causing them to collapse around the young man as he sank to the floor on hands and knees.

"No, John," her voice echoed forcefully, "you need to see."

"I….no, I can't," he breathed peeling his eyes open, willing the room around him to fade to black; to take the vision of his eldest son beating his younger brother to death with it.

For a brief moment he thought that his wish had been granted, as the space around him was pitch black. He wanted to sigh in relief or at least laugh at the insanity of the scenes April had put in his head. Dean had never attacked Sam. He was more than certain that no matter what Sam said or did to Dean, Dean would never bring harm to his little brother. After the Shtriga attack when Sam was five, Dean was more committed than ever to keeping Sam safe. And the boy knew the consequences of not protecting his baby brother: John would kill him.

Unless….

A grunt of exertion broke the silence of the blackness surrounding him. A barley audible groan followed the grunt and slowly the darkness began to shift into another room. Yet another motel room in desperate need of an upgrade.

…Dean really was replaced by something else or possessed.

Curled in as a tight a ball as he could manage atop the burgundy floral print coverlet on a double bed lay Sam. Unconsciously John moved closer to the bed and the figure laying towards the window. Despite the bonds keeping his youngest from moving around freely, John was relieved that his boy's hands and feet were free of the blood they were covered in last time he had seen Sam bound like this. _Sam wiggled his fingers in an attempt to get the blood flowing to them again. His shoulders hurt and his legs were threatening to cramp as he stretched them out to full length, then pulled them back up so his knees were almost in his chest._

"_Where's my brother?" _John strained to hear Sam's almost inaudible voice.

A low chuckle from the table behind him and Sam drew John's attention to the figure seated there; guns, oil, knives and whetstone littering the table. _Setting a newly assembled Glock down, Dean pushed the chair away from the table and moved toward his captive. _

"_Right here." He knelt between the beds to look Sam in the eye. "I've done nothing with or to him."_

_Sam swallowed hard and stared back at the thing pretending to be his older brother. "My arms….I, uh…they hurt. Could you please untie them?"_

"_I dunno, Little Brother," he said leaning closer to Sam, "last time you tried that I was nearly shot. Do you remember that?"_

_Sam nodded. He remembered that and the beating that'd come minutes later. "I won't…I promise," he whispered. "Please."_

"_We're meeting with dad soon," he said leaning away from Sam. Sam swallowed hard again, nodding his head in understanding. "I need to treat your wrists anyway. Can you behave this time or do I need to drug you?"_

"No," John gasped as Sam gave a cautious nod. Dean carefully undid the ropes binding his wrists before moving away. Dean would never do this to Sam. Sam, more importantly, would never take this from anyone; especially his brother. "What kind of twisted game is this?!" he yelled at the room as Dean cleaned and dressed the chafed skin of Sam's wrists.

"No game, John," Mary said soft and commanding, like when she had something important to say but refused to speak any louder than she had to. "Dean is not Dean. Sam is in danger. You have to get Sam away from this Dean before more damage is done. Before this happens."

The room shifted quickly from the poorly decorated motel room where his eldest son tended to his youngest to a warehouse thick with evening shadows. Dean stood before him, Sam held in front of him; knife pressed firmly to the tender flesh just under the younger hunter's neck. Terror flicked through Sam's eyes and coursed through John's body.

"_He's going to die, Dad, and there's nothing you can do about it," Dean said, taunting him, and moving the knife to trace the tip lightly over the pulse point just behind Sam's jaw._

"Why?" John asked, taking a few steps closer to his boys.

_Dean shrugged and shifted his grip on the hunting knife; pressing it in harder against the soft flesh. A bead of blood formed around the tip of the blade and rolled down the tender skin, paling it. "Because I feel like it. Is that a good enough reason?" He moved the blade, scraping lightly across Sam's neck in slow circles- leaving a thin tail of blood as he went. "Or maybe he just annoyed me a little too much today, Dad. Are those good enough reasons?"_

_Dean slipped his other hand up to tangle in Sam's longish, mass of thick locks. Keeping steady pressure on the blade at the younger man's throat, he pulled back on the hair in his hand. Sam hissed in pain as his neck was bent backward to further expose his neck to the knife being held to it._

"No. Those aren't good enough reason's, Dean," John growled, moving slowly toward his sons.

"_You know, Dad, you could have prevented all this." Dean quickly drew the hunting knife across his brother's throat. Sam gasped at the sudden pain; hands automatically camingup to cover the wound and staunch the blood flow- futilely. A satisfied grin covered Dean's face as Sam slowly sank to his knees._

"How could I have stopped this?" he asked, pain lacing his voice as he spoke; his brown eyes not leaving the stilling form of his youngest son. Blood seeped out between Sam's fingers as he lay on the cement floor, staring at John with panicked hazel eyes. The boy's breath came and went in shuttering gasps that were getting further and further apart. The spark in Sam's eyes was starting to die and his hands were slackening their hold over the wound allowing more blood to flow in a dark red river over his thin fingers to the cold grey of the floor.

"_You shouldn't have left us." Dean pulled a gun from the back waistband of his jeans and held it butt end out to John. "You know that you have to stop me, right?"_

"Not like this," tears welled, but went unshed, in his eyes and his voice all but broke as he spoke.

The soft choking and gurgling sounds Sam'd managed to make stopped. His slackened hands fell away from his throat slightly, exposing the clean edge of the wound. Fear, anger and confusion drove John's hand forward, against his mind's objections, to wrap his fingers around the thick, cold grip of the .45 Dean held out to him.

"_You know you want to," the Dean thing taunted. "Come on, dry run for the real thing."_

Boom! The recoil was louder that he ever remembered it being…louder even than the first time he'd fired a weapon as a kid.

_Dean staggered back a couple steps before falling to his knees; a small dribble of blood making a path down his chin. A sick grin was firm on the Dean things face as it sank, blood covered teeth and all, the rest of the way to the floor; a perfect circle of red slowly fanning across his tee shirt clad chest._

"No," John gasped as he knelt down beside the lifeless body of his youngest son. They couldn't both be gone. "No." His Dean would never do this. Would never have taken such a measurable amount of pleasure in it as the thing he'd just killed. He knew what he had to do.

Closing his eyes against the gruesome scene of his blood covered sons, John Winchester set the cooling hand he'd absently grabbed onto down and climbed to his feet. "How can I stop this?" he asked the darkness.

"Get Sam away from the thing responsible for all this," Mary said. She sounded so close- so real. Real enough that he knew she'd be standing in front of him when he opened his eyes.

"And then?" He caught her soulful green eyes as the bodies of his boys began to fade into the encroaching blackness.

"We make him see the truth about the Dean he's been traveling with."

"I can't…I can't do this alone."

"You won't," she said, earnestly taking a step toward him. " I will be with you every step, John."

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John jerked awake. Letting out a tired sigh he reached for his phone. With more calculation than he thought he could manage, John entered a text message and sent it to his eldest's phone. -95, 38. Dean would know what to do with them. Hell Sam would even know what to do with them. He wasn't worried about that. He was worried about what Dean would do to Sam before they got there. _'Please just let them come and Sam be all right,'_ he prayed, setting the phone aside and starting the truck. He had a trap to lay before Dean and Sam got there. _"I'm coming, Sammy. Together we'll find Dean…or exorcise him...or…kill the thing."_

…TBC…


	4. When the Fear Subsides

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

Author Notes: Sorry this took so long, life kind of came up and bit. Also, had a plot bunny for an adult fic come along with a blinking neon sign screaming "Write Me!" so I did. That story is available on my LiveJournal for those interested (18+ only and read the warnings before reading that one please). Thank you to all who are reading this and leaving kind words. Also, I did replace all previous chapters because I revamped them. Enjoy.

* * *

The metallic slide of shovel against mostly hard soil and soft grunts of exertion were the only sounds echoing around the still air at the back edge of the old, crumbling cemetery. The absolute deficiency of usual night sounds had the short hairs on the back of Dean Winchester's neck standing on end. He knew she was out there waiting, watching and planning an attack as they chiseled away at the hard earth of her grave. Staring briefly at the rising walls of dirt around he and Sam, Dean surmised there was maybe three feet left before reaching her grave.

"Uh, Dean," Sam said, voice edged in panic and fear under the forced calm of his tenor.

"Yeah?" he grunted, tossing another shovel full of dirt onto the large pile next to the sixty year old grave.

"We have company," he said, voice still holding the forced calm it had a moment ago.

Dean kicked the shovel deep into the soil of the grave before looking up over the side to see what kind of company his little brother was talking about. Sitting on the headstone of the plot across from the one the brothers were digging up sat the spirit they were hunting. Amber-chestnut hair moved with in rhythm with an unfelt wind. Cold, almond shaped emerald eyes stared at them in anger. A tattered white dress clung to her astral body, flowing like her hair, with the slight breeze that seemed to surround her. _Great. Just great_, he thought, hoping that she wouldn't come any closer.

"Keep her busy, will ya?" he said, wrapping his fingers tightly around the shovel handle. "I'm almost through." Willing his aching body to move faster, Dean dug at the remaining grave dirt. He could barely hear the soft grunts coming from himself as the shovel tore through the remaining earth. His ears were busy listening to Sam and hoping that the woman wouldn't move.

The shovel struck something solid when he heard Sam call out to him. "Sam?" he called back, driving the shovel through the rotted wood of the coffin.

Silence greeted him. Fear pulsed through him as he neared the edge of the grave. Pulling himself out, Dean was surprised by no sign of either Sam or the ghost. _Shit._

Barely ten feet from the open grave lay Sam, sprawled at the foot of another headstone. Snatching up the shotgun he'd sat beside the weapons bag, Dean made his way as cautiously as possible to his younger sibling. "Sam?" he asked quietly, finger's searching for the pulse point that the back of the younger hunter's jaw. He let out a relieved sigh when the pulse he found was strong and steady.

"You shouldn't be here," a female voice filled that cool air of the cemetery. Dean turned his attention from his fallen brother to the path between the graves. Bridgette Morgan hovered a few inches above the dried grass between the graves. A sickly sweet smile played across her nearly transparent lips as she stared at the brothers. "You shouldn't be here," she repeated.

Keeping his eyes on the ghost of Bridgette Morgan, Dean raised the shotgun- almost heavy in his hands- and reached his free hand over to rest on Sam's chest. Giving the younger hunter a hard shake, Dean whispered, "Sam," harshly to rouse the younger man. With a tight groan Sam stirred beneath Dean's heavy hand. Satisfied by the coarse sound from his brother, Dean moved his hand away and continued to watch the ghost before them with all of his attention.

"You shouldn't be here." She moved slowly toward them.

"And why's that?" Dean asked, pulling himself- gun still aimed true to the ghost- from the dried earth beside his sibling. "You know on second thought, I don't care," he said as his index finger tightened on the trigger, showering the ghost with pellets of rock salt. She screamed at the assault as she quickly dispersed back into the night air she'd materialized from. "You all right there, Sammy Boy?" an edge of humor to his concern laced voice.

"Yeah," he grunted, climbing somewhat steadily to his feet.

"We gotta salt and burn her before she gets back," he said thrusting the shotgun into Sam's arms. "If it moves, shoot it," he ordered moving quickly to the weapons bag and removing the lighter fluid and salt canister. Scrambling back beside the grave, Dean liberally shook salt over the bones exposed in the broken coffin.

"Uh, Dean," Sam said seconds before the report of the shotgun filled the air around the grave, "might want to hurry that up a bit."

"Just need another minute," he hissed, pulling open the lighter fluid bottle and pouring it over the newly salted body. Slipping a small book of matches from his pocket, Dean yanked one out lit it and dropped in into the grave. "Enjoy the afterlife, Bitch." He watched the fire licking at the night air and the sides of the grave long enough to make sure it was burning well before turning back to the weapons bag and his brother standing beside it. He dropped the bottle of lighter fluid and salt canister into the still open bag. "You good?"

"Yeah," Sam said, kneeling beside the bag and placing the shotgun in it. Zipping the worn bag closed, he lifted it up as he rose to his feet. "Let's get the hell outta here."

_Could have been worse, _he thought as they dragged themselves between headstones back to the Impala.

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With a tired groan, Dean Winchester rolled toward the bedside table; fingers grappling for the ringing cell phone sitting on it. Fingers locking around the smooth plastic of the phone, Dean rolled to his back and looked to see who was calling. _Wonderful_, he thought as he stared at the numbers being backlit on the screen of his phone: -95, 38.

Setting the phone back on the table, Dean shoved the covers from his body and forced himself from the warm comfort of the bed. With a quick yawn he padded from the bed to the motel table, snagging the lap top from Sam's bag as he went. He hit the power button and waited.

As the computer booted, Dean stole a glimpse at the cheap motel clock: half past one in the afternoon.

It was still too early for either of them to be up and around. At least for once neither of them had been too badly beaten this go around with a woman in white like ghost. She'd been easy. Dig. Salt. Burn. Done. She hadn't even put up much of a fight. The worst she'd done was toss Sam into another grave as they attempted to dig her up. But even that had only been once. Sam had theorized on their way back to the motel that it was because she wanted to be stopped, like when a serial killer suddenly started making mistakes. The thought had crossed his mind as well, but it hadn't stopped him from shrugging and saying, "doesn't really matter now, she's gone."

Staring at the blue wall paper of the computer's screen, Dean opened a web browser. Scrolling through the favorites list on the browser he pulled up Map Quest and entered the coordinates his father had texted him moments ago.

_Great. Just great,_ he thought; jaw tensing as he stared at the screen. Lawrence, Kansas. The one place he'd thought that he'd never have to go again; not after the last time he was there. Illogical as it would have seemed to Sam or even to their dad and probably anyone else, Dean could feel dread ready to wash over him. There was no reason, save for may be a quick visit with Missouri, for them to go home again.

So, why then, had his father sent him the coordinates to their home town? Somehow he seriously doubted that is was for tea and scones with Missouri.

He played the part of guns a blazin' well, but Dean preferred to know what he was getting into before rushing in; easier to live that way. Glancing at the clock one last time, he began to search for why his father was sending him back to Lawrence.

Almost an hour and a half later he looked up from the computer screen with no answers and a slight headache. Closing the computer, he looked at the form occupying the bed closest to him and smiled. For once the kid was getting a decent night's rest; just too bad that is was the middle of the afternoon.

Dean pushed his tired body from the almost rickety motel chair and headed for his duffle. Reaching in he pulled out what he hoped were cleaner clothes than the ones he'd worn the night before. Dressing he rescued his wallet from the table next to the bed and headed out.

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"Whatcha doing?" Dean asked, coming through the motel room door- grocery and take out bags in hand.

"Researching," Sam said with an almost heavy sigh, turning away from the lap top. "Lawrence."

"He sent you a text too, huh?" He sat the bags behind the computer and began fishing through them.

"Yeah, he did." Sam eyed his brother for a brief moment before continuing on, "why didn't you wake me?"

"Because you were running on pure exhaustion since yesterday, and I thought that you'd appreciate the sleep." He handed Sam a soda bottle, burger and package of fries.

"He's never sent them to both of us before." He took the offered food and placed it around the computer.

"Better question: why's he sending us to Lawrence?" Dean sat his own bottle of soda on the table and took the rest of the food from the take out bag. Pulling the chair from the opposite side of the table, he sat down. "There's nothing there. I looked for about an hour already."

"Did you check his journal?" Sam asked, biting into a French fry.

"No," he said, taking a large sip of his soda. "Did you?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh, opening the bottle of soda. "Noting in there." He took a long sip of the dark colored liquid. "We should call Missouri and see if she might know something."

"I doubt dad would have told her anything," Dean said, setting the rest of his cheese burger on the foil wrapper. "But it could be worth a try."

"I'll try her after lunch," Sam said, stuffing a couple fries in his mouth and typing something into the computer.

They finished eating in relative silence, save for Sam's fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Dean wanted to ask what the younger man was up to, but decided against it. Really he didn't want the long explanation Sam was sure to give about what he was doing on the computer.

Balling the wrapper up he dropped it into the paper take out bag still sitting on the table.

"M'gonna get packed," he muttered pushing away from the table. Grabbing up his discarded clothes from the previous night, Dean Winchester set about folding his mess of mostly clean and dirty clothes. They would have to hit the laundry mat in Lawrence. He dropped the bag at the foot of the bed. Double checking the weapon's bag, he placed it next to his clothes bag. Grabbing both bags and heading for the car, he couldn't help the thoughts of dread that'd set in after he'd deciphered the coordinates their father'd sent him earlier in the day.

_Why Lawrence, dad?_ Dean thought, dropping his clothes bag in the backseat of the Impala and the weapons in the trunk. No weird deaths or disappearances had happened there since their mother'd died. Nothing had happened there since he and Sam with Missouri's help cleared the poltergeist from their old house. So why had his dad chose now to send them back there?

"Ready?" Sam's voice behind him startled Dean from his thoughts.

"Yeah," he answered with a shrug, the feeling in the pit of his stomach that something wasn't right growing stronger as Sam dropped him bag in the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat.

It was going to be a long trip back to Lawrence.

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Something wasn't right, of that much Dean Winchester was certain, as he guided the Impala past the sign welcoming them within the city limits of Lawrence, Kansas. The tight ball sitting in the pit of his stomach constricted more as he neared the town he'd hoped with all his heart and soul to never set foot in again. His gut told him Missouri knew that.

His gut was now telling him that their father hadn't called them to their old home town to check up on them. Dean knew his father better than well enough to know that their father had Demon related reasons for sending them home. The reason not being all that clear to him lit his warning senses on high. He didn't like there was nothing, other than a father who sent them coordinates to Lawrence, waiting for them at the end of the road.

_What's changed since Chicago, Dad? _He wondered, pulling the Impala into the motel he knew was closest to Missouri's. Praying him and Sam wouldn't regret following their father's coordinates, he parked and forced his musings to the back of his mind.

"Try Missouri again. I'm gonna get us a room," he said, sliding out of the car.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Cuing up the psychic's number on his phone, Sam Winchester pressed the dial button as he watched his older brother enter the motel's office. Something was up with Dean; he'd known since lunch. His brother was rarely this quiet for as long as he'd been. Even Dean's body language was curt.

He didn't need too many guesses to know what was bothering his sibling- the fact that they were back in Lawrence for the second time in a year was more than hint enough. The silence that's accompanied them since finishing lunch and hitting the road for Kansas was an even bigger clue. But the fact that there was nothing happening in Lawrence to warrant their father sending them there was what bothered him. And Dean's biggest tell to Sam that something felt off to him was the look in Dean's eyes; a far away look that was a mixture of hurt, fear, anger and hope.

"Missouri, it's Sam Winchester again. Dean and I are back in Lawrence," he let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger of his let hand. "Our dad sent us...we're not entirely sure why, but he did. Has anything like we handle happened here recently? Give me a call back." Ending the call he dropped the phone to his lap and dropped his head to the rest on the seat.

_Hope you're really here this time, Dad._ He thought closing his eyes and trying to close out the thoughts of worry that were worming their way into his head.

"Room ten," Dean said, sliding back into the car.

"She wasn't home. I left her another message," he reported, as the older hunter pulled the car in front of the room, knowing that Dean was going to ask. "Where do we start looking for dad?"

"I'm gonna try calling him again. Then we're going to start calling motels in and around Lawrence." Dean closed the driver's door and headed for the backseat where his bags sat on the floorboards.

Sam watched his brother drop his bag heavily on the ground in front of the door, jam the key into the lock and give it a sharp twist opening the door. Letting out another sigh, Sam shook his head before following his brother's steps. His fingers had just wrapped around the canvas handle of the bag when his phone began to ring.

Dropping his hand away from the bag handle, Sam quickly pulled the phone free of his jacket pocket.

"Hello?"

"Is Dean close by?" a tired voice graveled quickly in his from the other line.

"Dad?" he asked slightly confused by the urgent, tired tone to the voice. He wasn't sure, but he was almost certain that there was fear edging his father's voice.

"Yeah, Sam," John let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Is Dean close?"

Sam glanced behind him to the open door of the room Dean wasn't visible inside; the door to the bathroom was closed. "No. Want me to get him?"

"No!" Sam flinched at the sharply shouted command. "No, Sammy. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, Dad, we're okay."

"You… Sam, are you all right?" Hardness etched the words through the phone line and Sam's ear.

"I'm fine. Why? Dad, why are we in Lawrence? Are you here? Where are you?" The questions rolled through his brain and off his tongue before he time to really think about them.

"Just something a demon said a while ago," John said, casually. "Yeah I'm here, son...Sam, why don't the two of you come by for dinner later."

"Want us to pick something up?" Sam leaned against the hood of the car, staring out at the street and the cars moving up and down it. His father was off. He'd never known his father to ask only about him. Their father always inquired about the two of them, never just one- even when he was really pissed at one of them.

"No," his voice was softer this time, almost normal sounding. "I'll get us a pizza or something. Five o'clock?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, a smile unconsciously playing across his lips at the thought of dinner with their father. "We'll be there."

"I'm at the Cozy Comfort Motor Lodge. And, Sam, be careful," John said, cutting off the phone.

Sam stared at his phone for a moment before shoving it back into his jacket pocket. _That was odd._ He thought, once again wrapping his fingers around the handle of his bag. _Be careful?_ Why would his dad warn him to be careful? Why wouldn't he warn Dean as well? He pushed the door to the room closed as he set his bag on the other furthest from the door. _Why'd he only want to know how I was?_ Why not Dean too? _What the hell's going on?_

"I'm going to try dad again," Dean said, emerging from the bathroom.

"He called." Sam sank to the bed beside his bag.

"What?"

"He called while I was getting my bag out of the car," he said, looking up at his brother and raking a hand through his hair.

"What'd he say?" Dean leaned against the motel table, watching his younger sibling as he answered the question.

"He wants us to come by for dinner."

"And?" Dean pressed, sensing there was more Sam didn't want to share.

"He was….off, Dean," he said after a long pause. "He didn't want me to get you or ask how you were. He seemed panicked when I asked if he wanted me to get you. And he told me to be careful."

"What time does he want us for dinner?" he asked, flexing the muscles of his jaw.

"Five o'clock."

...TBC...


	5. And the Shadows Remain

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

Author Notes: DON'T shoot me over this chapter. I promise that before the summer is over, or at least the year, I will have the next chapter or two up...just remember that reviews make me keep insterest in writing this faster. And also, I'm starting to get lost in G.I. Joe comics--specifically Snake-Eyes (if he were real my husband would be in trouble!) Enjoy.

p.s. Mind the swearing.

* * *

"You call Missouri again?" Dean Winchester asked his younger brother closing the door to the Impala with a little less care than he usually took—frustration at the feeling something wasn't right and wondering what their dad was up to

"Yeah," Sam said giving his door a lighter treatment than Dean had given his. "She's still not home. I left her another message. You all right, Dean?"

"Yeah," he murmured, leading the way from the car to the individual cabin style motel rooms. He could feel the heat of Sam's questioning glance, as the youngest Winchester fell into step beside him. Keeping his green eyes glued to the faded peeling blue paint covering the small building, Dean ignored the look and the questions attached to it. He wasn't all right by a long shot; he knew that Sam knew he wasn't, but he was going to be damned if he admitted as much. He wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling—relief at having finally found or at least caught up to their dad. That was overshadowed by the fact that it had been their father to tell them where in the hell he was; and the man just had to pick the one town, place, on the entire planet Dean went out of his way to avoid getting even close to. No, Dean Winchester was far from all right, or even sure what to do—let alone understand or even begin to explain the tight ball of trepidation taking up space in the pit of his stomach since the first text message from their father. The only thing he was certain of at the moment was that their father awaited them behind door number seven of the Cozy Comfort Motor Lodge.

"Dean?" He stopped just short of the faded door with the weather-beaten brass number seven adorning the top center. It hadn't been a plea, a whine or even a demand to answer the damn question. Dean wasn't sure what Sam wanted with the question of his name- wasn't so sure that Sam'd actually meant it as a question- but the look accompanying the word Sam had spoken told Dean all he needed to know. Sam had his own doubts about their father actually being there. And that Sam had his own gut feeling to the situation laying itself out before them.

Belaying an answer to Sam's unintentional question, Dean brought a tight fist to the wooden door and let the knuckles fall heavy against it. The sound reverberated through the mid-morning air and empty parking lot sharply.

"Dad?" Sam asked loudly through the wooden door, when light scraping and the shuffling of locks could be heard in response to Dean's knock.

With the final scrape of the chain lock the aging door flew inward, catching the young hunters off guard. Shock registered in their minds long before it should have as they stared at the shadow of the man who was their father. The man filling the doorway before them was tired and ragged. His salt and peppered beard had grown in fully and was longer than when they'd seen him last. His usually calculating brown eyes, stared out at them from sunken sockets with large bags settled in on the bottom. Even his normally buzz cut brown hair was allowed to grow. Neither brother could believe his eyes as they stared at their father.

Recovering slower than he liked or was used to Dean opened his mouth to make sure the man standing before them was really their father- his father. As the words began to form in his head and the signal was sent to his throat to make the necessary sounds, the wilder version of John Winchester reached a strong hand out to tangle his fingers into Sam's double layers of tee shirts. Without so much as a grunt of exertion John pulled the taller boy into the small room.

"Dad?" Sam asked, panic raising his voice above its usual quite tone. He'd never before seen the look his father had in his eye at that moment. He would never deny that he'd angered the man plenty while he was growing up. Isn't that what kids are supposed to do? But the look of tormented anger was one that Sam had never seen…not aimed at them anyway. "What's going on?"

Fear shot through Sam anew when John kept his hand firmly twisted in his shirts as he slammed the thinning door shut with his free hand. "Sam!" He heard Dean shout through the door-their father's hand redoing the locks with practiced ease. "Dad?!" Dean's fist pounded on the door, shaking it in the frail looking frame. "Open the door! Sam!"

"It'll be all right, son," John murmured, pushing his youngest- much taller- son through the small room to the smaller still bathroom.

Barely keeping himself from tripping over his own feet as he was shoved twenty feet or so backwards into the bathroom, Sam attempted to form some kind of protest at his father's actions. All his shocked mind would allow his body to do was weakly grab at the older man's wrist, in futile attempts to wretch it free of his shirts. His vocal chords seemed to lack the ability to form anything other than soft grunts and attempted half stammers of why.

"Don't worry," his father's thick voice said quietly as his strong grip unraveled itself from Sam's layers of shirts-giving the younger man one last shove before breaking contact completely.

The sorrow filled look that occupied his father's amber-brown eyes and the resolved look on his wary bearded face broke through Sam's shock as he tumbled backwards-colliding solidly with the back wall of the bathroom. A grunt bit past his lips when the towel rack connected harshly with the back of his hip. Flattening his hands against the rough floral print paper lining the wall, Sam caught himself - his knee crashing into the lip of the toilet seat. Gritting his teeth against the piercing shards of pain, Sam pushed away from the wall and tumbled his way to the thin wooden door.

"It'll be over soon," John's tired whisper stopped the charging form of his youngest son dead. A light smile ghosted across the older hunter's face as he closed the door, leaving Sam standing a couple feet from the door staring in stilled shock once more.

"Dad?!" Sam shouted through the door, shock being forgotten, pounding a hand flat against the door. A light scraping sound accompanied a slight jiggle of the flimsy gold knob. Sam could guess what his father had done to lock him in, and it wasn't going to be easy to break through.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Dad!" Dean's voice boomed through the locked front door, fists still pounding and shaking the door. "Open the damn door! Sam!" Taking a half step back, he squared his shoulders and forced one into the surprisingly solid door, sending flecks of light blue paint over the shoulder and arm of his dark jacket. Heat radiated smoothly throughout his shoulder and his other hand came up absently to rub at it. _Damn it, _he thought pulling away from the door again. "I'm coming in," he warned through the door, taking another step back.

Leaning his weight into one leg, Dean brought the other one up ready to wedge it into the door next to worn knob. If his dad wasn't going to let him in, then damn it he was just going to have to let himself in. Whispering a small prayer in the back of his head that Sam was all right and their dad hadn't abos-freakin-lutely lost his mind, Dean let his raised leg fly….

The floor pulled open.

_Damn it. _He cursed as his mind registered the information before he could stop the momentum the move required. A sick feeling of hitting nothing hard poured through him as his body pitched forward, his foot crashing harshly with the worn tan carpeting of the room taking his balance with it.

"Oufff," the sound forced its way from him as the air in his lungs rushed out when his shoulder connected with the hard flooring beneath the carpeting. Rolling quickly onto his back, Dean grunted in frustrated pain as he stared up at his father. _Oh hell,_ he thought, willing his aching body to roll in the opposite direction of his father's now raised foot.

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"Where is he?" John Winchester snarled at the young man laying in a sprawled heap at his feet. Bringing back a booted foot, he aimed for the man's chest. A cracked rib ought to help loosen his tongue, John reasoned allowing the boot heavy foot to fall rapidly at its target.

"_The hell?"_ Dean thought, forcing his body to roll hard in the opposite direction as the thick soled boot came fast and hard at his chest. Using his rolled momentum, Dean sprang to his feet before the crazed man that was his father. "Dad?" he asked deflecting the coming fist with a soft grunt. This wasn't right. This was some kind of trick. Maybe even a shape shifter. Had to be.

"Where. Is. My. Son?" John growled, low and slow as he stalked toward Dean. The grunted question tore through the small room, pulling Dean's mind back to the here and now. The older man's body was crouched low as he stalked toward the younger man.

"Dean!" a voice thick with fear and worry shouted through the bathroom door and the door shook violently in its frame.

Daring a glance away from the being that was trying to be his father- that he hoped wasn't his father-Dean looked at the bathroom door. His heart sank when he saw the fairly sturdy motel chair jammed beneath the knob, preventing Sam from pulling the door open. Bastard. Eyes hardened and watching the older man's every move he waited. "Sam's in the bathroom, dad," he said calmly to answer the question that'd gone unanswered for too long.

"I know," John said, his voice coming in a thick, raspy hush. Stalking closer to the prepared and waiting young man John closed more of the space between them. He could feel the younger man's muscles tense in anticipation of what assault my come next. The younger man's green eyes shifted to the bathroom door behind John as the caged boy inside slammed relentlessly into it screaming for Dean and his father. John sneered at the man. It really cared for his son. It really seemed concerned for Sam and his well being. "Tell me where Dean is."

"What?" He couldn't hide the shock that'd taken over is voice at his father's words. "Dad…"

"Enough!" The shout filled the room, bringing quiet and shocked stillness to the madness that'd inhabited the room only seconds ago. Balling an age thickened hand into a fist John rushed the young man poised for attack before him. The fingers of his other hand wrapped tautly around the man's neck and he used both surprise and his angered momentum to drive them toward the wall behind the main door to the room. With a hard thud their entangled bodies connected with the wall, shaking the door and the paintings on the wall.

A small gasp escaped the younger man and his eyes glassed over slightly when his head collided with the wall. "Dad," he breathed, trying to pull in oxygen rich air around the fingers encasing his neck.

Nails bit and marked the soft skin of his neck as his father squeezed harder. His breath came in wheezing gasps and he forced the spots dancing before his eyes to go away. "Why?" he bit out. He could barely hear Sam screaming and pounding on the bathroom door in desperate attempts to get free.

Bending his arm at the elbow, ignoring the slackening grip at his wrist, John drove the younger man's head back into the wall…once, twice…four times before he stopped and allowed the semi-conscious man to slip down the wall in a small smear of blood. Reaching to his boot John retrieved a concealed hunting knife.

"W-what's going on, dad?" he asked, slowly slipping a hand to the back of his and the trickle of blood making its way from the stinging gash on his scalp. Smearing the fresh blood on his hand, Dean pulled his hand back around and stared at the crimson adorning his thin fingers. _Shit._ he thought flicking his green eyes up from his hand to his father. _What the hell was going on? _"Dad?" he gasped out as the older hunter suddenly had him by his already abused throat.

"Don't call me that," John ground out from clenched teeth, his fingers pushing in harder on the younger hunter's throat.

"Dean!" Sam's yell came muffled through the door. Seconds later the door rattled in its frame and the chair jammed beneath the knob buckled slightly. "Dad!" Another loud jolt rattled the door, frame and wall.

"Sam," Dean forced weakly passed his lips as his brother screamed from his bathroom prison. His head was pounding in rhythm with his heart as he reached his hands up to his father's wrist. He wouldn't be able to force the grip off, he knew that.

Forcing his heavy arm to move, Dean brought a hand up to level with the older man's ear and slapped it hard and fast against it. Letting out a growled yell John dropped his taut grip on Dean's neck to cover his newly injured ear. Pulling in several deep breaths, Dean pushed himself away from the wall- room tilting and doing half turns as he moved. Stumbling forward he made his way to the chair that was holding his little brother against his will. He kept his eyes on the man hissing in pain by the main door to the room- knife still clenched tightly in his other hand- as he gripped the fairly sturdy wood chair and wrenched it from its place beneath the door handle. "Sam," he coughed at the closed door.

"No," John's voice rang through the small room again. _Damn it all. _he thought gripping the knife hilt tighter. Pulling himself to his full height, John crossed the room in four large strides- growling, "you stay away from him," as he moved.

"Dean!" Sam shouted as the bathroom door flew open and a hand clamped tightly down on the older boy's shoulder- hauling him backwards and spinning him around at the same time. "Dad?!"

"You stay the fuck away from him!" John was inches from Dean's shocked face as he yelled at the younger man.

"Dad?" Sam asked, the clam in his voice surprising him, as he moved slowly towards his father and brother. "What's going on?"

"Shhh, Sammy," John said not taking his eyes from the man he'd once again pinned to the wall of the room.

"Let him go, dad"

"No, Sam," John said using the tone that left no room for question or interpretation. "He's done something with Dean."

"What?" Sam choked out, halting his steps towards what was left of his family. "Dad, that's Dean. No one's done anything to him. I've been with him everyday for almost a year."

"He's lied to you," John spat turning the blade in his hand and shifting his grip in the younger man's shirt.

"No," Dean bit out sharply at his father.

"Shut the fuck up," he growled low, pulling back the hand holding the knife. "Where is Dean?"

"I am Dean."

"Liar!" John shouted bringing the knife in a quick and clean …

The blade sank with a soft hiss into the soft flesh of the younger man's side ending with a dull thud at the wall. A strangled cry broke from Dean's lips as his hands came up and wrapped around the hilt. "Dad?" he gasped, turning shocked eyes from the crazed man before him to the blade protruding from the side of his belly to Sam's terrified, shocked hazel eyes. "Sam…" His body sank heavily to the floor as his knees buckled- the tip of the blade scraping harshly down the wall as he went.

"Dean? Dad?" Sam willed his legs to move and push him passed his father to kneel beside his wounded older brother. "Dean?"

"You okay?" Dean asked looking up at his terrified younger brother. Unsure what their father would do next, he prayed that the man wouldn't hurt Sam.

"Fine." He looked down at the freely bleeding wound and the knife that rose and fell with every gasping, shuttering breath Dean drew in and released. This was all just so wrong. Dean shouldn't be leaning against the wall in a heap with a knife sticking out of his gut. Their father shouldn't have been the one to do it. And…it was just all wrong. "Dad, we have to call 911." He turned to the eldest Winchester and froze for just a moment.

John stood staring at the large smudge of blood that trailed the wall down to Dean. His dark eyes didn't blink. He wasn't smiling; wasn't reacting. Almost wasn't breathing-just staring a vacant look to his haunted eyes.

"Dad!" Sam yelled trying to get the man's attention. He didn't move just kept his eyes focused on the blood drying to the faded paint of the wall. Giving up Sam reached out for a bedspread. Wrapping the thick fabric around the knife, he applied pressure to the wound. "Dean?" He cupped his brother's chin softly turning his head to look Dean in the eyes. Dean's normally lively green eyes were cloudy and glossed over. _Shit!_ Sam cursed and fumbled for the phone in his pocket. "Dean, I need you to keep pressure on this." He placed Dean's hands on the blood soaked cloth surrounding the knife and forced them to press down. Forcing his fingers to still their shaking, Sam punched in the three needed numbers.

"There's been a stabbing. He's going into shock," the calm in his voice almost shocked him from the task at hand—getting Dean help—"Cozy Comfort Motor Lodge, room seven." Telling the operator that he had to get back to the victim, Sam hit the end button, quietly slipping the phone back into his jacket pocket as he began to silently pray for Dean.

"Dad?" Sam turned to face his father.

"We have to leave." John gave a curt shake of his head—as though his mind had just cleared a sleep induced fog—as he spoke.

"What?!" Sam turned to look at Dean's nearly unconscious form and then back to their father. "No."

"Now." He grabbed Sam's arm in a crushing grip- bruises already forming beneath the finger tips. Pulling the shocked young man from the room, John headed for his truck parked out front.

"We can't just leave him like that, Dad." He struggled against his father's grip. He had to get back to Dean. They could deal with their dad's insane behavior after Dean was safe.

...TBC...


End file.
